Brothers
by Philote
Summary: Michael reacts to Max's pain. (non-slash, missing scene for "Leaving Normal")


Title: Brothers

Author: Piper (hyperpiper_019@hotmail.com)

Rating: PG (for vague discussions of abuse)

Category: missing scene, angst

Summary: Michael reacts to Max's pain. (non-slash, missing scene for "Leaving Normal")

Spoilers: "Leaving Normal," "Independence Day"

Disclaimer: They're not mine. Please don't sue.

Author's Note: This is something I wrote quite a while back. I came across it the other day and decided to go ahead and post it. It's set in the first season at the beginning of the episode "Leaving Normal," just after Max's encounter with Kyle's friends that left him black and blue. This is my take on the brotherly relationship between Max and Michael at that point, and it is not meant to be slash. Leave me a review and let me know what you think!

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(Michael's POV)

I have a volatile temper, or so I've been told on more than one occasion. It's true I suppose. I rarely stop to think when I'm angry. And sometimes, like now, I just see red.

My so-called guardian was passed out drunk when I saw Max drive up last night. I had to hurry to make sure Hank was truly out before rushing to meet Max outside.

Max doesn't know. About Hank, I mean. About how he gets when he's drunk, how he hits me…now, I like to think of myself as a pretty tough guy, but everything's different when it comes to this man who's played 'father' to me for all these years. Usually I can get out and avoid him, and usually I go to Max. I feel safe with him.

But for all the times I've crawled in his window and slept on his floor, he doesn't know. Oh, he knows I'm unhappy at home, but he doesn't know the true reason behind that. I've hidden it from him. Sometimes that meant keeping out of sight for days while I nursed bruises that couldn't be hidden, but I did it. Why? I'm honestly not sure. I trust Max with my life, love him like a brother, and know he feels the same…but I don't want him to know.

Max often acts the part of my big brother, and he does it well. He tries to keep my temper reigned in and is always cautioning me against whatever bad idea I've cooked up. Sometimes it comes off as condescending, but I know he means well. He teases me like a brother, and he comforts me when I need it. And he's got an overprotective streak the size of Texas. If he knew, he would find a way to stop it. So that brings us back to the question: why don't I tell him? I guess I'm a little ashamed. And if I'm being brutally honest—I'm a little scared, too.

But back to last night. I didn't want Max to see the state Hank was in, so I rushed to meet him outside. He was turned away from me, closing the driver door, when I got close enough to talk to him without yelling. "Hey Maxwell, I wasn't expecting…" I trailed off as he turned around.

I don't know if I can describe what I felt at that moment. Shock, I think, quickly followed by worry. "Max, what the hell happened?" He was bleeding from his cheek, his lip, and his forehead. As he stepped away from the jeep, the movement brought a grimace and he curled a hand around his ribs.

I reached for him instinctively and caught him when he stumbled. He grasped my arm with one hand, and I used that arm to support him while my other hand gently grasped his chin, tilting his face up. No doubt about it—someone had used him for a punching bag. But worse than the bruises, and worse than the blood, was the look in his eyes.

Max has very expressive eyes. If you study them, you can see straight into his soul. And right then, they were brimming with pain. Pain because he hurt physically, but also pain because he hadn't deserved this, and because he'd been afraid…I know that pain. I see it all too often in the mirror. I can cope—but it was new for Max.

He gripped my arm tightly, giving me the impression that my support was the only thing keeping him standing, and his other hand remained wrapped around his side. Still, he found the strength to shock me further by saying, "I'm okay, Michael."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Oh, yeah, everything's peachy. I'm sure you were just leaving for a midnight drive and ran into the door with your face." Despite the harshness of my words, I was extremely gentle with him. It was obvious that he'd been hit in the ribs, and I had no idea where else he might be hurt.

I guess all my years of nursing injuries came in handy. I helped him to one of the old crates sitting outside my 'home' where he could rest and I could see the extent of the damage in the light. The closer examination revealed that his bottom lip was split open. The abrasion on his cheek would probably turn lovely colors before it was gone, but it didn't look too deep. As for his forehead—that cut would have to have come from a major impact. I felt the anger start to rise. No one had a right to hurt Max like this—_no one_.

He had closed his eyes and was passively allowing me to look him over, a clear sign of how much pain he was in. I took a deep breath and shoved the anger back. I had to make sure he was okay before I interrogated him about who I would soon be killing.

"Max?" I waited for him to open his eyes before gently commanding, "Tell me where you hurt."

"Well, if the headache is any indication, my head is about to fall off."

I spared him a smile for that one. At least he was feeling well enough to joke with me. "I can see that your head is hurt, genius. Where _else_ are you in pain?"

He motioned to his right side, where one hand still rested protectively. "Your ribs?" He nodded. "Is that all?" He concentrated for a second; it was obviously taking some strength to look past his headache. Then he said, "That's all."

I pulled his hand away from his side and lifted his T-shirt, bringing a wince from Max. When I got a good look at his side, I winced too. The skin covering the bottom of his rib cage was red and already taking on shades of blue bruising in some places. I raised my fingers to probe it gently and promptly earned a groan of pain from my best friend. He reached up to swat my hand away, saying, "Michael, that hurts."

I looked at him in sympathy. "I don't doubt it, buddy, but I need to see how bad it is and make sure nothing's broken." He stared at me for a moment, then nodded again, trust in his eyes. I went back to the bruise, feeling the ribs beneath for breaks or anything else abnormal. He flinched a few times, but I couldn't be sure if it was from pain. He's actually very ticklish, something I might consider telling Liz if I ever have a score to settle with him.

When I was satisfied that it was nothing more than bruising and would just be sore for a while, I pulled back and pulled his shirt back down. "You're sure that's all that hurts." When I received an affirmative answer, I continued, "I think you'll live. I'm going to get you a towel for your face, and then we'll talk." He looked like he was about to protest, so I added, "Don't move!" as I headed into the house.

Hank hadn't moved. No surprise there. I retrieved a towel from the kitchen and wrapped some ice in it before heading back to my friend.

Max hadn't moved either. He was obviously exhausted. I stopped a few yards away and stood for a moment, staring at him. He means so much to me; he's been such an important factor in my life. There have been many times when he was my lifeline. Looking at him bleeding and hurting…what I said about him having an overprotective streak? Mine's even bigger. I felt my anger come back again, and this time I let it flow. I was already planning what I was going to do to whomever had done this to him.

I shook out of my thoughts and went to kneel in front of Max. Pressing the ice against his forehead, I said softly, "Here, hold this on it." He took the cloth into his own hand, then stared back at me. "Who did this to you?" my voice was still soft, but it had taken on a deadly tone.

He recognized that tone, I guess he usually hears it before I get myself into trouble. "Michael…I'm okay. Let's just drop it, all right?"

"Max, this is not okay. Tell me who hurt you," I demanded.

He shook his head and moved the cloth to his lip. I stared at him, frustrated. Who would want to hurt Max? He's easy to get along with, quiet, nice to everyone. I didn't know anyone with a reason to be mad at him, except maybe…

"Kyle." Max looked up at me. "It was him, wasn't it? He's mad about Liz."

Max started to speak, but I cut him off. "Tell me the truth, Max. It was those jocks from the football team, right? Kyle and his friends?"

"Kyle wasn't there."

"I've seen them giving you those looks. It was them wasn't it?"

"It doesn't matter who it was."

"I'm gonna kill them."

"Michael, no."

He proceeded to tell me that we couldn't make a big deal of it, that we didn't need any excess focus on us or Liz if we wanted to keep his healing her under wraps. He made sense. It didn't make me want to kill them any less.

I stared at the cloth in his hand, spotted with his blood, and then the wounds on his face. I wished, not for the first time, that I could heal. But it's not among my powers. I seem better suited for destruction. Which is why I knew I would find my own creative way to get back at those jerks.

I shook myself from my thoughts when I realized Max was speaking again. "I'm going to tell everyone I fell on the basketball court, okay? Back me up?"

"Why don't you just heal it?"

He gave me that look that says I'm not thinking things through. He's got that look down pat. "It has to heal normally, Michael. If those guys see me with no bruises, don't you think they'll see that as a little weird?"

"Okay, okay," I relented. I wasn't happy about it, _any_ of it, but he was right. "At least heal the ribs. No one will see that."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. He suddenly looked even more exhausted. I watched as he healed the nasty bruises on his side, marveling yet again at that particular power. Then I gently removed the cloth from his hand. He looked up and met my eyes. His brown eyes were exhausted and a little wetter than they should have been, but what shook me about his gaze was the trust he conveyed to me in that look.

I drew in a breath and had to fight back the sudden urge to throw my arms around him and hug him as tightly as I could; in some way try to take away the pain and give him back the security that had been taken from him that night. But I couldn't fix it for him. 

Now, the morning after, I watch Max walk into school, head held high despite the wounds on his face. And I watch people look at him and whisper behind his back. And I'm angry again. 

Nobody hurts my brother. 

And somebody's going to pay.


End file.
